Last Thursday I went to the Musee d'Orsay for the evening opening hours--6-9 pm. This is a good way to avoid the hordes that crowd it during the day. It was a pleasant day, so I elected to walk there (and back) and thoroughly enjoyed that. The tourists are coming back, sigh, but still a walk down the quai is not a madhouse. Nor was the museum, thankfully. I bought a ticket online, but there was absolutely no line when I arrived at 6:15. Popped right in!

My goal was to see to see the Seurats and Sisleys, but on arriving I realized that I had another agenda: the connection between my boy Ed and his gal Berthe Morisot.

I started with The Balcony. This is one of my all-time faves. The best part was that I had it pretty much all to myself. I spent a good 15 minutes just soaking it in, waiting for the occasional tourist to step in front of me and take a picture. Then, I noticed on the adjacent wall a small painting by Manet of Berthe with Violets, very similar to the one I saw at the Marmottan. Smoldering. My word, what a babe. Seriously, they had a thing going on...

These were downstairs. I am forever confused about how they organize the works in these museums. These two paintings (and a few others by Ed) were in a gallery that included Matisse and some Gaugin. Pre-impressionist?

In another gallery on the first floor I saw Olympia. Well, well, guess who? I dunno what the 'experts' say, but I am here to tell ya, that was Berthe. Ooo-la-la. I mean, I don't know about the body, but for sure, those were her eyes. Right next to Olympia was a painting of Zola, with sketches of Olympia in the background, and an art history book in hand. Ed knew what he was doing, yep.

Then I headed upstairs to the Impressionist/Neo-Impressionist/Post-Impressionist gallery. There I found the other painting that I had looked forward to seeing: Dejenuer sur L'Herbe. Oh man, what a painting. I spent another half hour here, again occasionally interrupted by the photo takers, but enjoying all the details that I have seen but haven't, if you know what I mean. The flying bird, the still life (bread, grapes and cheese), the classic nude, the boat, tied up in the middle ground. Comments on art and aesthetics that drove the critics mad excited me yet again, on a whole new level.

Then, I wandered through the rest of the gallery. I have to say, they have some of the best of the best here, including Monet. Here I saw for the first time that it was his early works that I admire so much--the stuff from the 1860's through the '70's. This man had what I would call 'the hand'. Just compared with Sisleys, Pissaro's and (the sole) Morisot, he just had the touch. It makes the others look like they were stabbing at the canvas with their brushes.

Now after about 1880 or so, Monet seems to have lost the touch imho. After this, he had a much 'looser' (read less skilled) touch, leading into the Haystacks, the Amiens series and what I consider to be the worst, the Water Lilies. I know, I know, everyone fawns over these, but I seriously think they show a famous painter in decline.

By the way, a recent article I happened across revealed that he likely felt this way as well. Shortly before a major exhibition in 1908, he took a knife and a sharp pen to several dozen of his works, declaring them unfit. He might have been right--they works are lost to history, though. I suspect he would be horrified to discover what Michel did with all the works he didn't get around to destroying. Perhaps he just forgot about them, down in the basement?

In any case, the guy was a master, no doubt, but as I am sure he himself realized, how long can one sustain the mastery? How do you know when you are done? Actually, give him credit--he loved to paint, and sometimes it's the process, not the result that matters. My personal sense is that he grew to love his actual gardens at Giverny more than painting them. It's kind of sad that those works have come to define his oeuvre. After all the early stuff was the good shit.

After this, I was getting beat down and hurried through the rest of the gallery. I did enjoy the works by Seurat and Cross and one in particular by Caillebotte (whose lesser works were featured at the Marmottan) with the guys refinishing a floor, The Planers.

Out of energy, I whipped by all the crappy Degas and Renoir that everyone loves so much, leading me to wonder if look like all those folks I get so annoyed at, racing through the galleries without actually looking at the works. In my case, I'd like to think it's because I've been there, done that, but to them, I must look like the rest of the heathens, sigh.

On my way out, I noticed a small painting that resonated enough to stop me. On inspection, it was another Manet. Subject? Yep, Berthe! Just a study really, but even as I was on the move, it caught my eye. Seriously those two...

The Pearl in the Oyster

Yesterday, I managed to get out to the Marmottan. This was an interesting museum, one that I had never heard of until I saw a segment about it and the latest show on tv. In addition to the permanent collection of Monets, they had a special show called 'Collection Privees' featuring, as you might expect, works from various private collections.

First of all, there was a line when I arrived at 4pm, which surprised me. It turns out that there were several groups of French tourists, doing just what I was doing: taking in the show before it ends on the 10th. This meant that there were some serious crowds in the tiny gallery, so I slipped past them to take in the permanent collection, where few of them bothered to go.

This was quite a disappointment, as it turns out. Reading about the creation of the collection, I learned that it was the result of a gift from Michel Monet, Claude's oldest son and last survivor, in the sixties. Apparently, he had inherited the remainder of Monet's works (after all the best ones had been purchased), and gave them to the Marmottan, in exchange, no doubt for some money and plenty of faux prestige. I can tell you that these were positively the worst works by Monet that I have ever seen. These were the very dregs, basically, the stuff that no one wanted to buy and that, I am sure, the painter himself would have burned, had he had the chance. So...I blasted through that, then returned to the collection privee, after the crowds thinned out, where I saw a very nice Lautrec (The Laundress) and a spectactular Redon (Apollo's Chariot). All the rest (including some Sisleys and Seurats) was just average and most was just detritus.

Then, I wandered upstairs to see the rest of the permanent collection, the stuff that was there before Michel Monet turned the Marmottan into the 'Monet Museum'. Here I found a lot of laughable 17th and 18th century paintings, some pretty remarkable 14th century triptychs and some interesting illuminated manuscript pages, though the latter were very poorly lit (I suppose to keep from damaging them).

But the best was yet to come. It turns out that for some reason--familial I think--the Marmottan has a large number of paintings by Berthe Morisot. She was not just a painter (and a reasonably good one) but was also the subject of a number of paintings by other impressionists. I rounded the corner to one gallery and there, amidst a group of lackluster paintings by Morisot and some dreadful watercolors by her niece (or something like that) was a tiny painting (maybe 12 x 16) of Morissette herself.

I was stopped cold, transfixed and delighted. Before I even looked to see who painted it, I spent a good ten minutes just taking it in, resonating with the pure joy that comes from just such encounters with delightful and delicious art. Then, I had a look to see who the painter was: Edouard Manet. I can't say I was surprised (she was a subject in a number of his paintings, most notably The Balcony), but I was even more delighted to see this one for the first time. Just looking at it, I had the sense that this was a painting of a beloved by a lover. Her eyes were magnetic, her look smoldering. Geez even I wanted her--my thoughts were, quite frankly, carnal.

When I got home, I looked it up: 'Did Manet and Morisot have an affair?' As it turns out, probably yes, but as with so many things, it was complicated. He was married when they met, and she ended up marrying his brother Eugene. There's no proof of their affair, of course, unless you count that painting. And I do--I mean, it's right there for all to see.

It goes to show that sometimes one finds a pearl in the oyster, eh? It's the reason I have a love/hate relationship with museums. Thanks Lynda ;^)

DAU: Refund Required

What follows here is a copy of the email I sent to the organizers of the DAU exhibit, which, as both readers know, was a complete and utter disappointment to me.

Greetings,

My apologies for writing in English--I confess that while I can understand and speak French to a limited degree, I am unable to write with any certainty. I hope you will understand.

I also hope you will understand why I am writing to request a refund. I signed up and paid for an unlimited visa to the DAU.

My first inkling that this might have been a mistake came when I went by the visitor center at Chatelet on 24 January, when the show was scheduled to open, only to find that it had been postponed. In fact, as I looked at the two venues, I could see that they were still struggling to get them open--workers furiously working on the doors and scaffolding still up at the Theatre du Chatelet. No worries, I thought, as I was not scheduled to receive my 'visa' until the 28th. I had hopes that the technical difficulties would be worked out by then.

I came back to the visa center at the appointed time--thirty minutes early, as advised--and received my visa without delay. A good sign, I thought. I asked if both venues at Chatelet were now open, but was told that only one, the Theatre de la Hotel de Ville was open. The look of alarm must have registered with the clerk--she asked me if I would like information on how to receive a refund. Thinking this was a bad sign, I said, yes, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst.

Well, the worst is what I got. I went into the Theatre at my appointed time and was immediately surprised to see that workers were still everywhere, and that the venue looked, at best, half-finished. I had, per instructions, left my cellphone at home, expecting to receive a special device that would guide me through the exhibit. The instructions made it sound as if this was the key to my 'personal experience' that would be created from the rather invasive questionnaire that I filled out online as part of the registration process.

Well, once inside, I could see no place to obtain this device, and when I finally asked a rather harried young man about it, he explained sheepishly that the devices were not available yet. Asked when they might be and where I could expect to find them, he could only say that he didn't know.

I found my way into one of the (only) functioning parts of the exhibit, a film screening in a large and virtually empty auditorium. There was a indeed a film being shown, but the sound was so poor that I could not hear, let alone follow the dialog. And the film itself was unremarkable--poor lighting, awkward camera angles and a general lack of any action. This I might have forgiven if, as I say, I could hear the dialog. After watching this for about ten minutes, the screen went blank and another harried young man came up to tell me that the film had experienced 'technical difficulties'. Asked when it might resume, he simply shrugged and said he didn't know.

Ok, fine. I went back out into the exhibit space and stood in line to use one of the silver film booths set up on the mezzanine. A few minutes into the wait, yet another harried young man approached those in line, explaining further 'technical difficulties' had rendered most of the viewing booths inoperable. A few were working, he said, but the wait (after one filled out some sort of waiver) would be forty minutes to an hour. I left the line after hearing this, thinking with my 'unlimited' visa, I could just come back later. The woman in front of me, with a three hour visa, had no such luxury and elected to wait. One hour later, I walked by and she was still waiting.

I went back down the the ground floor to begin exploring the rest of the exhibit, but increasingly found this hard to do because there simply was no exhibit. I tried to enter the 'Brain' segment but was told by a rather surly guard that it wasn't open.

I retreated and opted to explore the 'Future' segment. I went into the stairwell and walked up several flights, eventually ending at a door with some indication that the 'apartments' were on the other side. I asked if this was the case, was told yes (ah success!) and went in. The 'apartments' were nothing less than a joke, small rooms 'furnished' with junk items that were clearly picked up from a garage sale and placed haphazardly on tables and dressers. It had a depressing 'Soviet-style' air about it, but more like what a young French millennial thought it might look like. Just random and sad. In one room, to which I was not allowed access, I could see an amazing 'Soviet' Macbook on the table--who knew, eh?

And in one of the rooms, someone had cut up an onion, presumably with a spoon, given the look, and put pieces of it into some tin bowls, like this was supposed to be dinner. I thought perhaps the intent might have been to introduce the smell of onion into the air, to add 'authenticity' to it, but this, like so many other aspects of the display, seemed to be the result of laziness (at best) and outright deception (at worst) and had only the effect of making me wonder who had even bothered to do this. No doubt, someone who was thinking of lunch, and only wanted to be done and gone.

In another room hung a tapestry, with a crude representation of what I assumed was supposed to be a family--a man, a woman and a child. I knew of their sexes at least, because each of the figures was adorned with crude but very obvious genitalia. I can't read Russian, of course, so I don't know what the saying or slogan was at the top, but I found myself wondering where in the world someone had found this and why they thought it was something that a typical Soviet might have on their wall. Oh, and from the looks of it, this was supposed to be a child's bedroom, with a stuffed bear and some games scattered about to give us clues about what the child might have been up to before being escorted out to the gulag. I can't help but think of that poor child, staring at the graphic tapestry, clutching his little bear hoping for some kindly storm-troopers to come and rescue him. I know life was bleak for the Soviets, but this little tableau had obviously no connection to the real world. Just junk collected and assembled in no order and with no meaning.

I left the apartments and asked the young woman standing outside (also, yes, harried) if they were still working on the displays. She said, no, except for a few details, this was complete. I think she saw the look of dismay on my face, but I opted not to tell her what I thought of it. My question really said it all.

After this, I wandered up and down the stairwells, searching for but finding no other content whatsoever. Looking for 'Animal' took me up five or six flights of dilapidated stairwells (which were not designed to reflect Soviet grimness, but instead reflected the laziness and incompetence of the designers of the show) and arrived at a dead end. A trip down to the bottom of the stairwell where I hoped to find 'Motherhood' yielded only another bored looking guard.

I did manage to get into one of the operating viewing booths on the ground floor, after being told that the film being shown on that level was 'complet'. Given a number hastily scrawled on a piece of paper and shoved into a plastic holder, a young woman guided me to the booth. It looked like it had been built the day before, raw wood and tape holding it together. I suppose that was meant to reflect more of the Soviet grimness, but by now my charitable assumptions were gone and I knew it to be the result of poor planning and execution, not by design.

Inside I managed to view a few of the films, but like the experience in the theatre, the sound was bad (in spite of having headphones) the film quality was poor, the camera angles were awkward (often lingering on the person who was not speaking) and often the scenes were obviously staged, or part of some introduction being given to the 'actors'. Nothing useful in terms of emotion or the experience were presented--it was as if instead of trying to edit or select interesting content, they decided to simply 'use' it all. The grid presentation was unhelpful and had the look of some crappy porn site, with the viewer being required to select the clip based on the tiny hint given on the thumbnails. In this booth, there was an iphone, shoved into a wooden base, and on it was the message 'swipe to continue your experience'. This yielded nothing but a view of some unknown person's face, and nothing happened.

The only functioning parts of the exhibit seemed to be those designed to make money: the cafe and the gift shop. The cafe was manned by at least a half a dozen bored baristas--bored because there were no customers, and the gift shop had little to offer other than postcards and glossy photo books. Most of the shelves were lined with canned goods, most of which had no labels, as if, not having a sufficient supply of actual Soviet canned goods, the staff had made do with modern cans of tuna, disguised as 'Soviet' by a lack of label. I felt sorry for the wax figure of a woman by one of the shelves, forced to peer over her glasses at this tawdry fake display for eternity. At least I could get out, and I did, right away.

I did take the time to talk with a young woman at the entrance, who was very kind, but clearly frustrated at having to tell viewer after viewer that yes, this was all there was to see. She made it sound like more content would becoming, and judging by the number of workers on sight (at least double the number of visitors) they were certainly up to something. And don't even get me started on the faux 'janitors' wearing white jumpsuits and dragging around dry mops. I hope they were well paid, for a more boring and potentially degrading job I cannot imagine.

If I have bothered take the time to write this extended review, it's because I had such high hopes. After all, this is Paris, the 'big leagues' so to speak, where one must bring their best game to succeed. I can't help but think of the concurrent fashion shows--can you imagine if Karl Lagerfeld (for example) put on such a pathetic show for Chanel?

By contrast and for comparison I hold up the show earlier this year at the Palais de Tokyo by Tomas Saraceno. This was an amazing show, visual, tactile and engaging. At every turn was something new, interesting and exciting visually and intellectually. This is sort of art I expected to find at DAU, and if you've read even a portion of this email, you will know that I did not. I have refrained from publishing an extended review like this, limiting my comments to a few on Facebook, but if you've read the reviews in the New York Times and Le Monde, you'll see that my words are not the only critical ones and would, and would, in any case, never reach an audience such as theirs. Ironically the photo that accompanied the Times article came from the exhibit itself and neatly sums it up: Betrayal.

Comparisons to the botched Frye Festival are perhaps unfair--I do not think the organizers of DAU intended to defraud, but the result is much the same. A lot of people spent a lot of money on this, and you would do well to start refunds as soon as possible.

Always Nearby

Another long hike yesterday took me to the outskirts of central Paris yesterday, this time 7.1 miles in just under two and a half hours. In general, I am trying to make my way round the edge of the city from north to south, along the eastern edge.

I started out going north on the Rue du Faubourg du Temple, up to the Boulevard de Belleville, where I turned right, and headed east. This is a broad boulevard and on Friday it was packed with people in the market. I chose not to walk through the market, just because it was so crowded, and also because quite frankly, there's not a lot to see, except the same things, over and over. Fruit and vegetable vendors, meats, cheeses and cheap clothing and household goods repeat themselves every few feet. It's hard to imagine shopping more than a few minutes here, as there is rather chaotic line at each vendor, and the shoppers aggressively vie for position. Mostly, the old women win this game, simply by moving in close and demanding attention. Any attempt at politeness leads to a delay in being served.

I skirted the market for a few blocks and then turned north again, up the Rue de Melinmontant. This is a narrow street that goes uphill for most of the way, and it is unremarkable in that the shops are nothing unusual and often just a little bit sad on the exterior and in the windows. This is a relatively poor section of town, so the frequency and quality of goods is low. For example, the meats in the butcher shops often looks poor, dry and rather suspect. I often wonder who shops here, as most of the time they are empty. The same with the bakeries and cheese shops, jewelers and clothing stores. Perhaps it's the time of day, but I can't help thinking that most of them are on their way to going out of business in a couple of months.

Some places, however, persist. There are a few shops that are always nearby, no matter where you go in Paris. First of all, there are the phone stores. There are at least two or three on every block. My own street, which is considerably busier than many that I have walked down, is no exception. The most common is Lycamobile, which appears to be a chain, but there are literally dozens of independent shops. Like so many other shops, there appear to be no customers inside, just a bored shopkeeper on his or her phone. These places are incredibly well-lit, with fluorescent lights so bright that it hurts to look inside. The windows are full of ancient phones, tablets and accessories. These days, when everyone already has a phone, it makes me wonder if they are not merely fronts for mob money.

Another place that you will find within a few hundred feet of any place you choose to settle in Paris are kebab shops. Like the phone stores, they are brightly lit and, nine out of ten times, empty. Oh, there is the occasional diner, but I suspect that they are just a member of the family of the owner, paid to sit and pretend to eat. For one thing, their menus are so extensive as to be suspect. They not only offer kebabs, but also falafel, fried chicken and sandwiches. These are offered on their own, or as a combo, with fries and a drink. I've eaten in just one of these joints, here on my street and the food was, as you might expect, awful.

Speaking of awful, you will find a Macdonald's within blocks of any place you choose to pick in Paris. There are at least six of them around my neighborhood, and I long ago lost count of them in my walks. It seems that no no matter how far out nor desolate the street, there is a Micky Dees nearby. And unlike the kebab shops, these places are always doing a brisk business. There are KFC's and Pizza Huts out there too, but they are fewer and farther between.

Another common sight are the little house goods stores, whose wares are invariably out on the sidewalk, requiring passersby to step out into the street. Again, they are almost always empty, with a bored shopkeeper in the doorway, smoking or browsing on their phone or both. The goods here are usually cheap in quality but expensive in price. Plastic goods and suitcases seem to be the big sellers, based on what's usually displayed out front.

Women's clothing stores are also frequent sights, but again, it's hard to imagine that they are doing a thriving trade, as they are also empty save for the bored shopgirl and an occasional browser. I guess it would be unusual to see a line out the door, but still I cannot see how they manage to stay in business with what appear to be so few customers. The same with shoe shops--lots of goods but no one seems to be buying.

I'd be doing a disservice to the city if I did not mention the absolutely most frequent establishment, the cafe. Of course, this is the trademark of Paris, much more than the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe, probably since the cafe predates both of those monuments as symbols of the Parisian life. Like many other places, though, many cafes are either downright empty or nearly so. But this may be because they are so common--it's hard to find enough people to fill them all. And, to be sure, many cafes are mobbed in the evening, especially during the summer. Not unlike the British pub, these are gathering places for the locals, folks who actually live on the street. Close and convenient for a meetup, this is not so surprising, just slightly annoying at times.

So it was along the Melinmontant all the way up to the top of the hill. I've learned that walking north from my flat is usually an uphill journey--think about Sacre Coeur looking down on the city. Where Melinmontant becomes the Rue de Farageau has no view back down on the city, just a rather bleak plaza. This street leads to the edge of Paris, just short of the Peripherique, where I turned right on the Boulevard des Marechaux.

This is a broad and flavorless street, with massive and equally boring apartment building on either side. An occasional burst of small dwellings, sort of like brownstones, are intermixed, but for the most part it's just a long desolate stretch, punctuated by a tire store, a gas station and a fitness center. The buildings seem like terrible places to live, not because they are poor, just monochromatic and dull. I expect that the apartments are rather nice inside, or at least I hope so, since that would make up for the sadness that is the street life, or lack thereof.

A few blocks of this and I was ready to turn to home, a right on the Rue de Bagnolet. This street runs roughly parallel to the street I walked down the day before, the Rue de Belleville, but it was not nearly so interesting. This street also runs up alongside the Cimitiere Pere Lachaise, but I have already had a long walk through there and kept to my path toward home. This was a downhill walk, so it was a little easier, physically, but in general just tired and sad. The fruits and vegetables looked old and tired, the meats and cheeses dry and unappetizing. Even the people--though thankfully not tourists--seemed unenthusiastic and worn down.

Reading this , perhaps you think I have grown tired of Paris, but this is certainly not the case. If anything, it's given me new insight to this place. It seems very romantic from far away, but up close, it's a lot like every place, sometimes just old, sometimes just boring, mostly just ordinary. At least in these places one does not find all the tourist traps and souvenir shops that dominate in the city center, and that in itself is refreshing.

I have to point out that this journey is basically just begun. I have only seen the tiniest fraction of the city--all of it north of river. With a couple of exceptions, I have yet to venture south of the Seine, but as time goes on, I will go further, using the metro to get out and walking back. For now, though, I have a few more walks to take up here.

The last part of the journey yesterday was the most boring--a long hike up the Boulevard de Voltaire, all the way from just above the Place de la Bastille back to Republique and home. I've walked this a few times, and eventually it becomes a task, not unlike hiking back to base camp, looking forward to a drink and some dinner. 

Another Long Walk

Of course, as both readers of this journal know, I came to Paris to write a screenplay, possibly two, but of late I have realized that I also came to re-discover Paris. Not those parts of Paris that I already knew, nor those parts that typical tourists come to see. Make no mistake, I am a tourist, here for less than a year and that is hardly enough time to consider myself a Parisian.

But in the short time I have here, I am resolved to see as much of this city as I can, and hopefully to record what I see. To this end, I have been taking long walks through the city to those places that typical tourists never go--to the edges of Paris, to those places where people live, but do not go to 'see'. Here are my observations.

Yesterday I took my second longest walk, about 6.6 miles. I know that doesn't seem like a lot, but at the end I was more than a little bit tired--exhausted is a better word to describe it.

I set out up my street, the rue du Faubourg St. Denis, up to the Boulevard Magenta. I walked up to the Rue La Fayette and headed north. This took me above the Gare de L'Est, across train track behind the station and all the way up to Jaures, where I crossed the Canal St. Martin and headed up the Avenue Jean Jaures. This is one of those broad boulevards, without much of interest, mostly phone stores and the occasional supermarket. Few restaurants are on this street, and the ones I saw were all Kebab places, all empty, save for the lone attendant waiting for a customer and glued to his phone.  I walk by thinking how hard that job must be, boring and unsatisfying, wondering how these places even survive. Perhaps I have just come by at the wrong time, perhaps later in the day or night they are packed. Somehow I doubt it, more likely the old rule that nine out of ten restaurants fails seems to apply here too.

Eventually I reached the end of Jaures at the Parc de La Villette. I have been here before, on this trip, when I came to the the Museum of Science and Industry, but this time I passed it on the opposite side. A small amusement park, left over from the holidays was still going, but as far as I could tell, no one was there. Here I saw the monumental building that houses the Paris Philharmonic. It's a tribute to the worst of modern architecture, in the style of Gehry, oddly shaped and decorated with designs that recall Escher. It's dreary and ugly, even though it's fairly new, it looks tired and dirty, empty and desolate. I took a few pictures that reflect that mood and moved on, toward the edge of Paris.

From here I walked south, down along the Boulevard d'Indochine, which roughly follows the RER tracks just inside the Peripherique. I left the boulevard where it becomes the Boulevard d'Algerie, thinking it appropriate that these desolate streets were named after failed French colonization attempts and walked through the Parc de la Butte de Chapeau Rouge. The park was almost completely empty, just me, a couple of gardeners and a couple other unemployed wanderers, wondering what the Chapeau Rouge was. No doubt something to do with French heroism on far off shores.

Exiting the park, the street went sharply uphill. There were almost no shops and certainly no restaurants or cafes, and few pedestrians as well. Across the train tracks, I saw an an enormous hospital, the Hopital Robert Debre, which occupies several acres. Not surprisingly, a large church is right in the middle: Notre Dame de Fatima. At this point the street became the Boulevard Serurier, and at what seemed to be the top of the hill, I turned back into the city on the Rue de Bellville.

This is a narrow street that leads almost all the way back to Republique, and seems to be the heart of what could be called Chinatown, for all the signs were in Chinese, and most of the people on the street were Asian. I was pretty much the only round-eye on the street for several blocks. Here I saw butchers with pigs feet in the window, restaurants with menus in Chinese first, then French, no English at all. There were also a lot of jewelers and of course hair salons, bakeries and lots of little grocery stores, with various roots and vegetables out front next to the more familiar fruits of the season, tangerines and apples.

Eventually I found myself on the Rue du Faubourg to Temple, which terminates at Republique, and from there it was a ten minute walk back home. All in all, a long walk, two and a half hours of steady movement. Back home I collapsed in bed for a nap, thinking of all I had seen. Quite a day.